Desperate Souls
by Jean Delta
Summary: Rumpelstiltskin doesn't stop to help Zoso, disguised as a beggar and never inherits the power of The Dark One. As a result, Baelfire is dragged off to war and certain death. Disgusted with himself for his cowardice, Rum finally sets out to follow his son and bumps into a rather cunning, not to mention beautiful, run-away bride.


_**Author's Note:**_ **So very, very AU. Timelines are completely out of whack in this story. I figured I'd throw in some other OUAT characters for convenience sake and forget the whole "Rumpelstiltskin is older than dirt" storyline. (At least for now.) Also, this is the first fanfic I've ever written and I just don't care anymore. I'm good with feedback though. Be as cruel as you like. ^-^**

* * *

It wasn't that Baelfire was ashamed of his father. How could he be when the man had raised him more lovingly and with greater care than any of his friends could say of their parents? It was just that the older Bae got, the harder it was for him to make excuses for the man.

Rumpelstiltskin was a coward and never claimed to be anything else. When the soldiers walked through the streets, he cowed. When women laughed at him, he ducked his head. When the other fathers and younger men from the village – those that were left anyway – mocked him and berated him, he ran. And it wasn't that Bae was ashamed of him. Of course not. He was just getting tired of being known as The Coward's Son.

It was early morning when the soldiers came looking for new recruits and, for the first time, did not make speeches about honor and bravery and heroism. They simply arrived as usual – and then proceeded to drag every capable man –and woman – of appropriate age with them. Most of them were unwilling and Rumpelstiltskin still remembered how the rheumatic butcher's youngest son, only just 16, begged to be spared and how his blind mother had cried for her last child. He tried not to think too much on the irony; the butcher's son, dragged off for the slaughter.

For a moment, a familiar fear itched down Rumpelstiltskin's spine and along his arms before he remembered he was mercifully crippled and the soldiers would leave him alone. "Thank the Gods," he thought immediately when his son came to the door to peek at the mayhem, "Thank the Gods that Bae is only fourteen." They may have lowered the recruitment age to sixteen and suddenly formed a Woman's Corps for now, but not even men of war were callous enough to drag children into the battle field.

He changed his opinion on that matter two weeks later when Bae came running to him, desperate and out of breath. "Papa!" he cried. "They're taking Morraine! They lowered the age again and they're taking Morraine." It was the closest Bae had been to tears since he was an infant. He was a brave boy, full of ideas of honor and adventure that his father could never, for the life of him, explain. Morraine was his only real friend, the only child that didn't throw rocks at his father's head or spit at his shadow. She was also just barely fourteen. Bae's birthday was in three days.

They left in the middle of the night. Rumpelstiltskin waited until the last hearth-fire was out in their little village, gathered up only what they would need, and then roused his son and left as quietly and quickly as is possible for a lame man and his teenager, still half-asleep. They got as far as King's Road before soldiers overtook them. Rumpelstiltskin knew he should never have trusted that beggar.

A week later, the soldiers took his son. They came to the door, knocked fiercely, and without a word Bae was gone. A braver man would've been proud of his son. Baelfire didn't scream or cry or struggle. He rode off with the soldiers and even tried to comfort another child with watery eyes and quivering hands. Rumpelstiltskin watched it all happen with the eyes of a dead man. He forgot how to blink and his mouth wouldn't move. For a moment he gripped his son's shoulder tightly but when the soldiers came close, Bae simply shrugged him off and went away to war.

A braver man would've been proud but Rumpelstiltskin was a coward. It was all he could do to hold the sobbing until he was alone.

* * *

Belle made a quiet excuse – something about stomach cramps and a headache - to her father, said good night to the many guests she couldn't escape, ignored the hundred more she managed to slip by, and made her way to bed. It was a little rude to leave the party so early but she couldn't quite muster the energy to care. The betrothal feast would last another two days and then Gaston and his entourage would leave, not to return until spring.

"Perhaps the ogres will have attacked by then," Belle thought, ashamed to find herself wishing for war. If the fighting escalated, Gaston would stay on the front lines. He was not the kind of man to leave the battle for his bride. "Thank the gods for that."

Belle tried to sleep but her eyes wouldn't stay closed. It was only just sunset and the nausea that had sent her running from the ball held in her honor had passed. All she wanted to do was curl up by the fire with a book. The words, however, swam before her eyes and it took several minutes of struggling through half-blindness for Belle to realize she was crying.

With her marriage to Gaston, her city would finally sleep peacefully. His father had great armies at his command while Belle's father had little more than a few trading vessels and a handful of guards to keep the gates. Belle's city was rich and held ancient titles, while her husband-to-be had an endless supply of weapons and soldiers. They were the perfect match. The Encyclopedia of Fairy Knowledge and Customs fell from her hands as she covered her eyes, ashamed. Gaston was strong and handsome and she should be grateful.

He was also slow, strict, and cold and Belle knew enough about the world to guess confidently that she would never love him. She was hard-pressed to find anything to even respect in Gaston. He seemed to delight in his power, constantly showing off and bragging about his victories (to any of the other fawning ladies at court when he realized Belle was less than enthralled). Yet he had no humility or wisdom, as she'd often observed in his treatment of the servants and soldiers under his command. He was reckless and proud, without wit or cunning.

"It's nothing to cry about," Belle told herself. "If everyone in the world got to be with their true love and go on daring adventures, there wouldn't be a need for books and stories." And yet, she had been raised on tales of love and virtue, chivalry and bravery, honor and happy endings. Belle would be happy if she could just see a bit more of the world before her wedding, before she was locked behind a stone wall, in a high tower for the rest of her life for safe-keeping, smiling, silence, and baby-making. There would be nothing for company except silly maids, her own empty heart, and fine china.

That settled it. Struggling out of the golden dress, Belle tried to swallow the panic in her throat. "I can't really be considering this," she said aloud to no one. "I can't really be thinking about running away to go on an adventure before my wedding. This is insane." And yet, she was giggling.

"Insanity does run in our family, my darling." Belle froze, half undressed and with the beginnings of a travel bag sitting on her bed. Her father stood in the doorway, stepping in quietly and bolting the door behind him. "But I don't think you've inherited that particular gene."

His smile was sad. The kind of smile he wore when he was about to reveal a dark truth about the world, he would've much rather kept Belle safe from. "You have your mother's courage and intelligence but I'm afraid you have my stubbornness and pride. I know you are less than impressed by your fiancé."

Belle didn't know whether to expect a scolding or tear-soaked apology (both of which, in her opinion, seemed reasonable) and her father's calm yet tragic eyes were not giving anything away. She waited for him to reach his point as he took her chin in hand as he always did when he was beginning a story.

"You have always expected much from life, my Belle, and Gods know I'd hand you the world on a platter if I could. But the ogres are coming and this is not a time for lies, no matter how pretty." Sir Maurice looked close to tears and Belle couldn't decide if she wanted to burrow into his chest and beg him to set her free or hit him and claw his eyes out for forcing her to marry without so much as asking her opinion on the subject.

"For our city to have even a chance of survival, you must marry Sir Gaston. His father made the demands quite clear." Belle was opting toward the clawing and screaming bit.

"But…" her papa's gentle tone was back, more comforting and soothing than ever. "They never specified that you had to attend the entire betrothal feast. In fact, my angel, you look a little under the weather. I think you may be due for a bit of bed rest, don't you?" And, finger to his lips, he slipped her a pouch of gold and travel papers for one of his smaller merchant vessels.

She had never held her father so tight. The breath was knocked from both their lungs as she threw her arms around him and kissed his cheek. "Thank you, Papa!" She managed to gulp out in between sobs.

"My child, if there was any other way," he trailed off.

"I know, Papa."

Brushing away her final tears, he added, "The roads are dangerous and I can't provide more men than are already aboard the ship, so you must be careful on the roads Belle."

She understood immediately. Gaston and his family must never know she was gone. Her father would make up some excuse about an illness – it was the way they usually deterred unwanted suitors – and Belle would essentially be alone for her little "trip".

As protective as Sir Maurice was of his only child, he had never been able to deny her adventurous side. Little Belle had climbed trees taller than roofs, no matter how many times he protested, and always ran her horses faster and harder than was strictly proper. She had left the castle unattended many times before, but not since the ogre sightings had become a true threat. And this would not be a day's journey to the sea and back. Now, Belle would travel everywhere. To the sea and beyond it, to the dragon mountains and the dwarf mines, to the fringes of the Infinite Forest and anywhere else her maps and atlases suggested.

"You must promise me you will stay safe," he warned, nearly moved to tears himself now. "I cannot lose you, my daughter. Marriage aside, I love you and nothing will ever change that."

"I love you too, Papa."

With a last embrace, her father – less the fool than most people imagined – returned to the ball to, "Distract the drunken masses" from her absence. He left her one last gift. A small but serviceable, leather satchel made of the finest dragon-hide. It held all she needed.

She changed into a more appropriate pair of thick, cotton trousers usually reserved for country riding and one of her father's old horse jackets. She managed to fit a work dress, four maps, and two atlases in her travel bag, although she had to leave several others behind. Her green cloak and a pair of ankle boots were the last touches. She took one, last look at her girlhood room before sneaking down the servant's stairs and out the back gate.

She longed to take her stallion, Phillip, with her but he was getting old and someone would undoubtedly notice if he went missing. It would take an extra day then, to reach the sea, but once there she would board the ship and the world would be hers.

Heart pounding in her ribcage, she moved quickly and quietly until she was well past the city limits and into farming country before she allowed herself a break. It was a cloudless night, clear and hushed and, for the last time in her life, Belle knew herself to be free. Adrenaline kept her moving until the early hours of the morning, when she reached the largest village between her home city and the seaside.

As luck would have it, an inn was open with a cheap room available. The bed was comfortable enough and her head felt heavy. Once settled, Belle was able to finally relax and, as light began to color the furthest reaches of the horizon, she drifted off to sleep.

* * *

He would not wait for his son to die. Rumpelstiltskin decided this, the second morning of Baelfire's departure. He would not sit, alone and sober only out of poverty, waiting for the news of his son's demise with the next wave of recruiters. Coward, he may be. But he was a father first. Gods and bad knee be damned, he would not sit still one more moment.

He left early in the day and by mid-afternoon, he had managed to limp and drag himself six leagues into the neighboring village. By then, the shooting pain in his leg made it clear he could not spend the night on the forest floor. He had no money for board but perhaps some generous inn-keeper would let him work the rest of the evening for a warmer spot by the fire.

As it would happen, the village seemed devoid of generous people of any profession. The spinner was unsurprised – what with the war on and all – and found instead a grassy spot to the back of the little inn. It was deserted and, as the sun dipped past the horizon, he thought of his son.

Was Bae alone and cold, shivering and wishing to be home? Was he surrounded by new friends, warm and laughing, in spite of their dire circumstances? His boy had a knack for making quick friends, not a skill inherited from his father. Or, Rumpelstiltskin willed the thought away, was he already gone, his corpse made carrion for the birds above the battlefield?

No. That was not an option. Baelfire was alive, or his father would know of it. His father would know because the world would stop spinning and the grass would no longer grow and he would, without any doubt, decay into dust if his perfect boy was gone. It was not a peaceful sleep Rumpelstiltskin fell into.

* * *

Belle had meant to rest as long as possible, sleep until noon with any luck, before setting out from the village. It would take a hard day's run to reach the port in time to board the ship but something woke her prematurely from her dreams of dragon-slaying and mountain climbing.

Someone was muttering outside her window. A low, tense sound followed by silence and then a short, piercing wail that brought to mind the darkest, most twisted torments imaginable. There was silence and then more muttering and Belle wondered what on earth could produce such a racket.

The sun's light told her she had slept all of four, maybe five, hours and this did not put her in good spirits. Rising from her bed with all the grace – as well as the fury – of a royal, wakened from her nap, Belle threw open the shutters and searched for the source of the disruption.

To her utter confusion, all she could see was a woodpile, a bare tree, and a heap of rags leaning against the side of the inn. Then the rags shifted with a violent yelp and Belle could make out boots and a hood.

Trying to make sense of the scene, Belle started when the inn-keeper's wife came around the side of the building with a scowl and a broom. The woman gave the ragged man a whack with it and Belle watched, trying not to giggle at his ridiculous flailing. The woman brought the handle down hard on his head.

"GAH!"

Enough was enough, Belle decided, no one deserved to be beaten for nightmares. "No matter how disruptive his screams of terror are," she thought. Still in her riding suit, she threw her hair into a bun as she raced from the room and out the door.

When she reached them, the man was cowering in the dirt, clutching a walking stick and stuttering over some lost sentence.

"Up!" the woman barked at him, "Up! Get up and move off!" She made as if to bring the broom down on him again when Belle caught it.

"What is the meaning of this," she demanded, bringing forth every ounce of authority she could muster. In court, she and her father may have been a source of amusement but her mother, stories told her, had been a force to reckon with. Belle hoped she'd inherited more than beauty as she stared the older woman in the eye and tried desperately not to blink.

"We don't allow vermin on the premises," the woman was far from cowed but the broom seemed less of a threat. "He needs to clear out."

"While I'm sure beating a man senseless satisfies your more violent urges and discourages other squatters," Belle spoke hurriedly, trying to keep the royal lilt from her tongue, "I don't think that particular approach is the best course of action in the present circumstances."

All was quiet for a moment and, as the inn-keeper's annoyance was exchanged for confusion, Belle added, "He's crippled."

Silence.

"He can't stand up properly with you smacking him left and right with cleaning appliances."

Finally the woman spoke up, "I don't care if he's deaf, dumb, and mute. I want him out!"

Before she could begin hitting him again, Belle interrupted. "I was just on my way off. Let me help him up and I'll be responsible for him."

The woman looked less-then convinced but with a little more coaxing she stomped off to other chores, leaving Belle with the source of all her woes.

* * *

He had meant to be up at daybreak and on his way. The ground certainly wasn't comfortable and the light didn't ease his sleep. "Why, then," Rumpelstiltskin wondered, "Did I sleep all morning?"

And why, in the name of all things holy, was some highborn beauty with bags under her eyes coming to his rescue? Undoubtedly, it was going to be one of those days. When nothing made sense and everything that could go wrong, would. Excellent.

Somehow, the girl convinced the crone to back down and she turned to him with a look so eerily similar to Bae's it stunned him. A kind of mild consternation, mixed with annoyed wisdom, and – yes, there it was – disappointment.

She asked him something but he didn't answer, still struck by her very existence, and she rolled her eyes. Gripping his arm, she pulled him up and let him lean his weight on her while he regained his footing. His knee was throbbing and so were a dozen other places where the broom had left its mark.

"Thank you for that…display," he muttered. "I didn't mean to disturb anyone. I meant to be on my way much earlier."

"That makes two of us," she replied, handing him his walking stick. She was attractive but clearly not wide-awake and the spinner wondered why a girl her age was traveling alone.

It would be rude to ask, she had already saved him and the aura of regality around her made him ever more aware of his place. But suddenly his lips were moving of their own accord, "And where would a lone maiden be headed so early in the morning?" His voice sounded wrong and he tried to bite his tongue but some force prevented him.

"The sea," she countered, seeming not-at-all bothered by his wayward tongue. "I have passage on a ship."

"My luck continues," he replied, wondering what he was saying and why. "I'm headed the same way. Would you care for a companion? I may be lame but I have stories, mistress."

The girl actually smiled at him, "I can think of worse things. May I ask the name of my new friend?"

"Of course, mistress," he gave a sly smile and bowed with more grace than his lame leg should've allowed. "I am Zoso," he replied, "The Story-Spinner." The hiss in his words was foreign, wrought by some invisible force.

"Please, my name is Margie. I am not your mistress," she answered. "If we leave now, I may still reach my ship."

* * *

Unaware of his silent suffering, Belle gathered her things and made purchase of a cheap horse. They would need the extra speed if she wanted to reach her father's vessel on time and they were both small enough to share the saddle.

Her companion proved entertaining and more capable than she had first imagined. They amused themselves the rest of the way with stories; Belle of her false life as Margie the cartographer and Rumpelstiltskin, imprisoned in his own mind, spoke of his travels far and wide, telling stories and selling magic tricks as 'Zoso'.

Neither of them noticed the dark figure following, just a mile behind.


End file.
